"Of course you can have them or anything else you wish, to oblige you. But I should rather like to know how long your hair is when you let it down. You look as if you had a great quantity there, but probably it is not all your own." And he smiled provokingly. "If I was not afraid of the servants coming in I would undo it to show you," I replied, with great indignation and a sadden feeling that I, too, could tease. "I never heard anything so insulting!" "My servants are well trained. It is not six o'clock yet. They won't come in until half-past six, unless I ring. You have plenty of time." A spirit of _coquetterie_ came over me for the first time in my life. I took out the two great tortoise-shell pins that held it up, and let my hair tumble down around me. It falls in heavy waves nearly to my knees. "That is perfectly beautiful!" said Antony, almost reverently. "I apologize. It is your own." I got up and shook it out and stood before him. It hung all round me like a cloak. Oh, I was in a wicked mood, and I do not defend my conduct. "Comtesse," he said, and his eyes swam, "fiendish little temptress, put up that hair. And come, I will tell you about _A Digit of the Moon_." I pretended to feel greatly snubbed, and in a minute had twisted it to my head again. "It is a queer title," I said. Antony talked a little faster than usual. It seemed as if he was breathing rather quickly. "I shall give you this book. It only came out last year. I think it is one of the most delightful things that ever was written. You must read it carefully." And he put it into my hand. "The description, in the beginning, of the ingredients which God used to create woman is quite exquisite. Listen, I will read it to you." And he took the book again. His voice is the most refined and the tones are deep. One cannot say what quality there is in some voices and pronunciation that makes them so attractive. If Antony were an ugly man he still would be alluring with such a voice as his. I listened intently until the last word. "It is, indeed, a beautiful description," I said. "You probably are all those things, Comtesse, except, perhaps, the 'chattering of the monkeys.' You don't speak much." "And do you feel like 'man'?" "That I cannot do with you, or without you? Yes, especially the latter part of the sentence." I got up from the sofa and looked about the room. It seemed as if we were getting on dangerous ground. "How comfortable men make their habitations! And I like the smell," I said, sniffing. "The pine-logs, I suppose." "And the cedar panelling, perhaps, scents the place a little when it gets hot." "You have thousands of books here." And I looked round at the high shelves between the long windows. "And what a nice piano! How happy you must be!" "I should have been--and am sometimes, still," he said. "The Duke had a good room, too, at Myrlton."